Me and my late dance creem

classic rock, articles, centerville, news, fastfission, hollywood, body count, business, redmeat, pearl jam, creem, You inhale the smell of his rakish cologne, feel the rough of his hasty shave. But among these man-made smells there is the smell of dance something salty and damp. You are tuned to the smell of sweat on the skin of his scalp and his neck. Is this the closest we come to cannibalism, you wonder? dance In the next instant you want nothing dance more than to stand in the shower and take in his breath—the taste of salmon and salad and a vinaigrette dressing. You are not content to make love to the water. Because with your senses awakened so is your power of analysis. You are seeing, feeling, hearing. You are processing. Now it doesn’t make sense. Now it does. So, you wish the man to step in the shower and enter you from behind and you want the water to flow.
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Me and my late Olga raised them to tolerate, not creem to ride trains without tickets, he lamented. And you wonder about the relationship between his late wife’s tolerance for pain, his tolerance of a daughter-in-law’s headscarf, your tolerance for the stories replaying themselves with a hard cock in hand. And only because he has stopped talking about serial creem fucking on the house’s various couches—somehow now this word tolerance seems like a noble word, a word you have hung your coat of hope on as a lonely homosexual—right then you want to hold the man, in a selfish creem way, like you can find some part of him to keep in your wallet, somewhere to bury your thoughts along the side of his face and neck where they will rise from within and someday make sense.
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